The dining hall did not end.
It stretched so far that even perspective surrendered, dissolving into a golden haze where light became distance and distance became myth. The ceiling curved like the inside of a colossal ribcage, its beams cast from molten gold and veined with living silver that pulsed in rhythm with the slow heartbeat of Taeterra itself.
Glass orbs drifted through the upper air—Solmir Lanterns, enormous floating spheres tethered by bronze chains, their solar hearts shifting in hues of deep red to amber. Each one released waves of warm radiance, the scent of sun-roasted fruit and molten brass lingering in their wake. Light fractured through their surfaces into rainbows that danced along the endless rows of tables, painting faces and thrones alike in divine color.
Servants sculpted from smoke glided between the aisles, carrying trays of burning fruit, crystal goblets, and roasted meats that shimmered faintly with celestial light. Beneath it all, there was sound—not of conversation or music, but of life. A low, resonant hum—the collective heartbeat of two billion souls—vibrated through the floor and into the bones of every being who entered.
At the far end of the endless expanse, a raised platform loomed like the prow of a divine ship. Upon it, Zcain and Rnarah took their seats at the head of their monumental table, their thrones carved from the fused bones of extinct seraphs. Rnarah's veil shimmered in the gold-red glow, while Zcain's shadow stretched impossibly long across the floor, dividing the light like a blade.
The air itself seemed to bow in reverence.
Tavren was the first to move. His hammer rested across his back, the runes along its handle flickering faintly as he stepped toward the long table marked with Zcain's name. He sat beside Dheas, his posture casual, but his aura betrayed the tension in his shoulders—a subtle quake that rippled through the golden light.
Komus broke the silence, his tone easy but edged with curiosity.
"So, Tavren," he said, leaning back in his chair, "you're everyone's favorite hammer-swinger. Ascendant of what, exactly?"
The question hung in the air, soft but dangerous.
Tavren laughed—a short, sharp sound that didn't reach his eyes. "I'm not born of order," he said finally. "My father is Sin. My mother is Love. I am the bond between what breaks and what binds—the Ascendant of Covenant."
Qaritas felt the title settle in his chest like a stone dropped into deep water—another god of dual blood, another mirror of what he might become.
Zcain's expression didn't change, but the weight behind his eyes said it all. Rnarah's gaze softened just for a moment before hardening again.
Komus exhaled, the sound almost reverent. Ayla's fingers tightened on her cup, eyes glimmering in the forge-light.
Even Eon stayed silent—just the low hum of Taeterra filling the pause between gods.
For a heartbeat, it felt as if the hall itself bowed to the weight of that truth.
Zcain's mouth curled into something between pride and warning.
"A god made from contradiction," he said. "We thought it poetic."
Rnarah's voice, smooth as cooled glass, followed: "Or cruel."
Tavren glanced between them, something unspoken in his look. "Both," he admitted. "Covenant was never meant to rule—it was meant to remember."
He leaned forward, voice low and even. "The Ten Commandments are not laws to me. They're forces—ancient vows carved into the marrow of creation. When I call upon them, I'm not reciting scripture; I'm invoking consequence."
The light above him dimmed slightly as he spoke, and the air thickened with unseen weight.
"When I speak a Commandment, reality listens," Tavren continued. "Every sin becomes light. Every oath becomes a blade. They aren't meant to be obeyed—they exist to remind creation what it swore to itself. To forget is to unmake."
He looked down at his hands, calloused and trembling faintly, as if holding power too vast for any one being.
"The Ten aren't laws," Tavren said quietly. "They're promises. Break them—and I burn their memory into the world."
No one spoke. Even the Solmir Lanterns seemed to hold their fire in stillness.
"Even creation breaks its own word," Tavren said softly. "Stars promise light, then die in fire. We're no different. Every covenant ends in collapse—what matters is what it remembers when it falls."
Ayla's gaze softened with reverence. Qaritas felt the echo of divine heat prickle beneath his skin.
And then, from deep within his chest, Eon's voice coiled up like smoke, amused and poisonous.
Covenant—born of Sin and Love.
A mirror for every fracture inside him.
He understood it too well—the weight of being made from opposites, of holding together what should have broken long ago.
"A saint of paradox—born of Sin, wielding obedience. How adorable."
Qaritas didn't answer. The words, like Tavren himself, burned and comforted all at once.
The golden light from the Solmir Lanterns softened as Tavren's gaze turned distant, his hands braced on the edge of the table. The laughter and low conversation around them seemed to fade, swallowed by memory.
"We were hidden in Eldnari," Tavren began, his voice quiet but edged in iron. "The 1021st universe — a world where the skies shimmer like scales and the forests sing when the wind changes."
He glanced toward Zcain and Rnarah, and the air between them felt older than the hall itself.
"They sent us there to protect us," Tavren continued. "From Ecayrous. From Eirisa. From the wars their vengeance would never stop. Eldnari was meant to be a sanctuary."
Rnarah's fingers curled lightly around her goblet, the motion too controlled to be casual. Zcain said nothing, but the shadows beneath his eyes deepened until they seemed to drink in the light.
Then Tavren's tone shifted, dropping low — the warmth gone.
"Fifty years ago, Eldnari was attacked."
The words landed like hammerstrikes on an anvil.
"Nyqomi and her beloved, Theron, the Ascendant of Celestial Beasts, were the first struck. He was slain. She was taken."
A tremor ran through the table's edge. Dheas, who rarely looked serious, now stared down at his own reflection in his goblet — hollow-eyed, the gleam of humor gone.
"She was tortured for a hundred days," Tavren said, the words ground out like metal through teeth. "By the ten sons of Ecayrous and Eirisa — vengeance made flesh. They came not for conquest, but to punish the Ascendants of the Apocalypse. To punish us."
The hall fell utterly still. Even the sound of the billion heartbeats seemed to hold.
Zcain's voice followed — deep, restrained thunder.
"They succeeded," he said. "For a time."
The light in the Solmir Lanterns flickered, and somewhere above, the mural of the Hydra glinted as if listening.
Tavren's eyes unfocused, fixed on something none of them could see.
"It wasn't just vengeance," he murmured. "They wanted to erase what the Apocalypse had saved — a mortal named Kyrian."
Qaritas felt the name tug somewhere deep, as if memory itself leaned closer.
Tavren voice softened, but every syllable carried the weight of reverence.
"He was an eight-year-old elf. Found in the dark, bones broken, legs twisted backward. Sold to a dwarf who thought pain was craftsmanship."
The story scraped against Qaritas's ribs; the words "eight-year-old" pulsed where Aun'darion beat.
Eon's silence inside him was worse than laughter.
Komus winced, but said nothing.
"The Apocalypse found him during a hunt," Tavren continued. "Brought him to Taeterra for healing. Dheas rebuilt his legs — bone by bone. I forged braces to help him walk again."
He smiled faintly — the kind of smile that hurts to hold.
"The Apocalypse stayed with him for years. Never left his side until he spoke his first word."
Ayla's voice came gently: "What did he say?"
Tavren didn't answer, only looked down at his hands again. The smile lingered, bittersweet and bright as scar tissue.
"He was proof that compassion could defy destiny," Tavren said quietly. "Which is why they butchered him."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
"They impaled Kyrian and his entire family," Tavren said. "Even the infant. Their bodies hung from the gates of Eldnari. His head… was pinned by a knife. Like a trophy."
His next words cracked like metal breaking.
"The Apocalypse found them like that. Tell me, can you really blame them for starting a war?"
The words hung heavy, their grief rippling through the table like sound through iron.
No one answered.
Even Eon was silent within Qaritas's chest — a rare mercy.
One of the Solmir Lanterns flickered, its light fading to red before steadying again—as if even flame mourned the memory.
It was Dheas who finally spoke. His voice, usually light and teasing, carried the dull exhaustion of someone who had buried too many friends.
"Hundreds came to their side," he said. "Ascendants. Mortals from the 1990th universe. All the ones the Apocalypse had saved — they came. They remembered."
Tavren nodded slowly.
"We fought together. We won… but the land where that war ended — it never healed. The air there hums with broken vows. Every promise, every betrayal, still bleeds through the soil."
Ayla's voice was soft. "And the Apocalypse?"
Tavren's jaw tightened. For a long moment, he didn't look at anyone.
Then he said, quietly,
"Still paying for it."
Qaritas wondered what the Apocalypse sounded like when they prayed, and whether defiance ever felt like mercy.
Silence fell again. The kind of silence that doesn't fade — it settles.
Above them, the Solmir Lanterns dimmed to a faint rose hue, like distant stars mourning a story too sacred to retell.
The warmth of the hall dimmed into stillness once more. Qaritas leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes catching the light of the Solmir Lanterns. His voice broke through the silence like a quiet blade.
"Does Ecayrous know about you?"
The question landed heavy. Even the nearby servants of smoke paused mid-step, their forms trembling faintly before vanishing into wisps.
Zcain's expression turned unreadable—his crimson-threaded gaze fixed somewhere beyond the table's edge.
"No," he said, his tone measured and sharp. "He cannot."
Tavren exhaled, the sound more like a sigh through iron.
"We use Relics of Absence," he explained. "Amulets forged in silence, etched with the blood of forgotten gods. They erase us from memory—remove our names from divine archives, our faces from history's mirrors. To Ecayrous, our bloodline never existed."
Komus frowned slightly, swirling the liquid in his cup. "You just... vanish?"
"Not vanish," Tavren corrected softly. "Rewrite."
The golden light around him flickered, his aura warping slightly—one heartbeat, there, the next, subtly displaced, like a reflection seen through shifting water.
"That's why we lived in Eldnari," he continued. "Among the Changelings, Elves, Dwarves, and Halflings—those who could bend identity like breath. Zeiyn—my brother in all but blood, the Ascendant of Changelings—kept us hidden. He taught us how to fade between worlds without being seen by them."
His voice grew distant, haunted but proud.
"Each species there taught us something about change. How to hide. How to survive."
Rnarah reached across the table, her fingers brushing Tavren's knuckles—a rare, fragile tenderness.
"And how to love," she murmured, "even when the universe forgets you."
For a long moment, none spoke. The Solmir Lanterns flickered softly overhead, their glass hearts pulsing in rhythm with the ache beneath her words.
Silence fractured under the sound of approaching laughter—a relief and a threat in one breath.
The silence broke—not with solemnity, but with chaos.
A voice boomed across the hall, sharp and gleeful.
"TAVREN! DHEAS!"
A tall figure strode into the hall, cutting through the gold haze like a blade. Seven feet of lean muscle and living metal, his prosthetic arm and leg pulsed with runic light—each beat flashing like a forge's heartbeat. His silver hair streamed behind him, and the mask of red-and-silver metal hid the stitched scar across his mouth.
The hall rippled with heat as Vax—the smith-god—approached.
Tavren's face fell into his hands. "Oh no."
Dheas grinned. "Oh yes."
Vax reached them in a blink—literally—and with one swing, both of Dheas's arms fell to the floor in clean, sparking cuts.
"That," Vax said evenly, "is for destroying my latest masterpiece. Now, say you're sorry."
Blood reformed in golden threads before Dheas could respond, his arms already growing back.
"Really?" Dheas groaned. "I just healed from Tavren's hammering."
Vax folded his metal arm across his chest, unimpressed.
"Says the god who ruins ten swords in two weeks. What did you break it on this time?"
Dheas gave a sheepish shrug, grin returning.
"The creatures I deal with aren't exactly dainty. Besides, admit it—you like the challenge. Gives you something to brag about."
Vax's eyes narrowed behind the mask, though amusement flickered at the edge of his tone.
"You're lucky I'm the forgiving type. Next time, I'll forge you into the replacement."
With a snap of his fingers, Dheas summoned a small capsule no larger than an egg. He dropped it to the ground, and light flared.
From the glow rose Rukas, a monstrous guardian—towering, hulking, a patchwork of fur, scale, and bone glowing faintly along its spine.
"All right, Rukas," Dheas said, grinning wide. "Let's eat."
The creature dutifully gathered seven plates in its clawed hands while Dheas snagged four bottles of wine.
"I'll be in the medical ward if anyone needs me," he called, heading for the exit with Rukas lumbering behind.
Vax huffed, shaking his head.
"He had to release Rukas. He'll be miserable when he sees them again."
Eon's voice coiled through Qaritas's chest, amused.
"And mortals think family dinners are awkward."
As the laughter faded, Tavren rose slightly from his seat, gesturing toward the smith with open pride.
"Everyone," he said, "this is Rivax—Iyrian of Torture and Weapons. He's my beloved"
The silver-haired god gave a mock bow, voice muffled through his mask. "Rivax, if we're being formal," he said with a grin in his tone. "But most just call me Vax—it's quicker to shout during battle."
"Komus blinked. "Iyrian? So that's what half a god looks like?"
Vax tilted his head. "Depends on which half you're asking about."
Qaritas leaned forward. "I thought Iyrian were peacekeepers—children born from Ascendants and the realms they shaped?"
Daviyi nodded. "They are. But most were unions between an Ascendant and a mortal being. The first generation of Ascendants didn't make the Iyrian; the second did."
Vax chuckled lowly. "That's true. My father was Daryon, Ascendant of Demons. My mother—an Archangel."
The air shifted instantly.
Cree froze. Hydeius's cup slipped from his fingers, shattering against the table's edge.
Rivax turned just as their faces registered shock—and something like recognition. His crimson-gold eyes went wide.
"...Grandmother? Grandfather?"
Cree and Hydeius moved before thought could catch up. They nearly stumbled into him, arms thrown tight around the armored god. Cree's voice broke first.
"We're so glad you're alive."
Vax's expression softened beneath the mask, his arms hesitating before wrapping them both in a careful embrace.
Hydeius's voice came thick with guilt.
"Eirisa took your arm and leg. She—"
Cree's glare cut him off, but Vax only grinned behind the mask.
"Yes. Long story. But I survived. And my father would be happy to see you both."
Cree's smile faltered. "He… might not want to."
Vax laughed softly. "Why would you think that?"
Hydeius's gaze darkened.
"Because we let you and your brother be hurt. We let the 1999th universe fall into the Fragments."
Rivax's eyes dimmed for only a breath, then warmed.
"Don't be," he said. "You both did your part. My father was grown, strong. He had a family. You may not have been there for the worst of it… but you're here now."
He looked between them—his voice a steady forge-flame.
"You've got time to make amends."
Then, to Tavren:
"If you hadn't left us when you did, I'd never have met him—or the ones who helped me survive. We can't change the past. But we can stop the Fragments—and maybe remind the old gods that mercy still burns."
The Solmir Lanterns dimmed to blood-orange above them, shadows bending toward the hearth.
From within the great fireplace, purple-blue flames erupted, curling upward until they filled the air like storm clouds. A quill, black as voidlight, rose from the ashes, writing in fire that crackled with divine malice.
Ecayrous's voice rolled through the hall:
"In four days, four shall descend into the Hellbound.
Niraí. Daviyi. Cree. Qaritas.
Their opponents await."
The blue light washed across his face. Beneath his ribs, Aun'darion shivered once—answering the call before he could.
The quill burned to ash.
The words hung in the air, burning themselves into the golden ceiling before fading—
then echoed once more, carved in fire across the hall.
Rnarah's hand tightened around her goblet until fine cracks laced the glass. A single drop of wine slid down her wrist like blood, but she did not move. Beside her, Zcain's jaw locked—his silence a prayer no god would ever hear.
And for a moment, even the heartbeats of two billion souls forgot to sound.
The laughter died first.
Then the sound of forks against silver.
Then breath itself.
A pressure swept through the dining hall like a tide of unseen hands—soft, then suffocating. The Solmir Lanterns flickered, their crimson and amber light faltering into pallid blue. One by one, they dimmed, until only the faint reflection of the Hydra mural remained above them.
And then, the Hydra moved.
Eon inhaled sharply inside him. "Oh, it remembers."
That gives him a note of dread before the humor returns at the end.
Only one of its thirteen heads stirred—a tremor, no more than breath beneath stone. The ruby eye within it liquefied, glowing with molten azure light that trickled down the wall like a single tear.
The others remained still, watching in carved silence as the hum began—a deep, rhythmic pulse, too precise to be anything but divine.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The sound of a god's heartbeat—returning to a world that never wanted to remember him.
The Hydra's heads froze mid-snarl. The violet fire guttered to embers. And in that dead, trembling quiet, only one voice stirred—soft, coiling inside Qaritas's mind.
"Hellbound feasts, family curses…" Eon murmured, his tone half amusement, half dread. "Remind me why we ever climbed out of the abyss?"
Qaritas didn't answer.
The Solmir Lanterns reignited one by one, washing the hall again in gold and rose light. But something vital had shifted. The air no longer sang with warmth or divinity.
It smelled of endings.
And when Qaritas looked up, the Hydra's thirteen eyes still glowed faintly blue—watching. Waiting.
Four days.
Hellbound awaited.
Somewhere, beneath the Hydra's gaze, the two billion heartbeats of Taeterra began again—slow, uneven, out of rhythm.
The world had remembered how to breathe, but not how to rest.
In the stillness, Qaritas's untouched cup caught the Hydra's reflection—the single blue tear trembling in its surface before vanishing.